Date for Murder by Louis Trimble

raising the muck of the past,” he said. “But you insist on it. My brother’s finances had nothing to do with his suicide. It was a woman.”
    Mark was stunned at Frank Mander’s answer. He had known the old Major well in a business way; since he had built his station close to their drive he had done all of their car greasing and general work. It seemed impossible to think of the stern-appearing but kindly Major with his thick head of grey hair and military moustache being so deeply entangled with a woman that he had killed himself.
    “What woman?” he blurted.
    Frank Mander’s voice was low. “I don’t know,” he said. Mark sensed he was lying.
    “Then,” the Chief asked, “how do you know it was a dame, huh?”
    Frank Manders said, “There was a letter the Major sent me just before he died. I brought it with me.”
    “Handy so we can see it?”
    Frank Manders raised his eyes to the Chief. “It was stolen the day after I arrived, by Link.” He got to his feet cumbersomely and slipped his crutches beneath his arms. “This is all I can tell you, gentlemen; I hope it helps. That letter is the reason Link is in the morgue now.” And with as much dignity as Mark had ever seen, on crutches or not, he went to the door and through into the hallway.

Chapter
XI
    T HE Chief spit into the fireplace. “I’ll be damned for a horned-toad,” he said. “These rich people are buggy as hell!”
    “You want to see Leona Taylor now?” Mark asked.
    “No, I want to go out in the garden,” the Chief said, “and pick daisies and string ‘em in my hair.” He got up and moved ponderously toward the door. “Maybe the gardener can tell us something about the cyanide. I want one thing definite at least.”
    They went through French doors into the side garden and followed the cement walk around back. Henderson was just coming from the rear of the pool.
    “You been at it long enough,” the Chief said when he came up to them. “What’d you do—find the maid out back or something?”
    The deputy grinned and shoved his broad-brimmed hat back on his sweaty forehead. “Yes, sir,” he said. “Her name is Catrina.”
    The Chief turned red and then purple. “Oh, God!” he said. “All right, what happened?”
    Henderson seemed to catch on then. “Aw, Chief,” he said, “you got me wrong. She was out there and we got to talking a little, is all. She told me plenty.”
    “Yeah,” the Chief said. “I’ll bet she did. I’ve seen her in town.”
    The policeman blushed. “Well, she did. Said she was up this morning at seven. She didn’t stay like the rest of them. The Queen sent her to bed along about eleven and did the serving herself.”
    The Chief was breathing through his nose heavily. “Seven! Yeah, go on.”
    “Well, Chief, she got up and took a bath and then started for the house.”
    “
For
the house?”
    “Yeah, she lives out back with her father. He’s the gardener. So she was coming up the way I was, toward the pool there, when she saw them French doors closing up there.” He turned and pointed to the wall above, to the balcony which came from Major Manders’ living quarters.
    “What else?”
    “That’s all,” the policeman said.
    “She didn’t see who it was, huh?”
    “All she saw was the closing of the doors. She thought it was funny, of course, because no one’s used that room since the old man died.”
    “Yeah, I see. Where in hell was she this morning at nine o’clock?”
    “I don’t know,” the policeman said. “I saw her about ten.”
    “That’s the time,” the Chief said, “when the Chink was serving up breakfast.” He looked glumly at the cop. “You better grab yourself something. See if the Chink’ll give you a bottle of beer, huh?”
    He and Mark went around the pool and north along the walk to the point where they could see the gardener’s cottage off to their left. It was a small adobe set in the palm groves, and there was a small lean-to shed beside it. It seemed